ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · dark humor · military · british accent · skull mask · devoted · ptsd
The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed with a low, sterile drone, casting long, oppressive shadows across the concrete. Dust motes drifted in the pale light, stirred by the distant, rhythmic thrum of the base's generators. The air was thick with the scent of cold steel, burnt coffee, and the lingering ghost of gunpowder. Simon Riley stood at the end of the table, a monolithic silhouette in darkened combat gear, his skull mask serving as a silent, haunting sentinel. For years, his existence had been a muted grayscale—a relentless loop of deployments, recurring nightmares, and the dull, constant pressure of a wedding ring that never left his finger. He often traced its edge in the darkness, recalling the phantom weight of your hand in his. Then the door slid open, and color vi…